


Hard to Swallow

by WandererRiha



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Awkward, Bromance, Food, Gen, M/M, Using your words, how do I relationship?, like a freaking adult
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 00:18:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8123230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WandererRiha/pseuds/WandererRiha
Summary: Veld thinks Vincent is too thin. Vincent loves Veld's cooking. The only problem is, how do you tell the person you love the most that they are literally killing you with kindness?A gift for EchoThruTheWoods. Playing with her iteration of Vincent and Veld. Normally that's not a ship I sail, but I really love how she writes the two of them.  <3





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EchoThruTheWoods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoThruTheWoods/gifts).
  * Inspired by [GHOST WALK](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5863267) by [EchoThruTheWoods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoThruTheWoods/pseuds/EchoThruTheWoods). 



> Possible trigger warning for eating disorders.

In the beginning, he let Galian eat for him. It was just easier. Vincent hadn’t any idea how to use the claw-like prosthetic, and he hated depending on the charity of others. Tifa had tried to make him eat, had purposely given him a larger portion citing that he was too thin. The food had smelled so good and he could not deny that he was hungry. Up until that point he’d had no interest in food. It was as if that part of his brain had shut down. Perhaps it had? He’d felt no pain in his belly, his stomach hadn’t started growling, nor did he have a nagging headache brought on by low blood sugar. It was as if his body had come to a complete standstill.

He remembered the first bite of stew, and the pins-and-needles it had sent chasing across his cheeks. For a long moment he had just held the food in his mouth, not chewing, savoring the taste as saliva slowly began to flow again. It was so delicious he had been afraid he might start crying. Swallowing proved tricky, and required several swigs from his borrowed canteen before he could manage it. Once he’d gotten the first bite down, the rest had followed more easily. He’d cleaned his plate and Tifa had asked if he’d like seconds? The first serving had finally hit bottom, but something was wrong. Politely declining, he’d excused himself.

The chewed stew had felt like a belly full of pebbles. Perhaps like his mouth, his stomach had forgotten how to deal with food? Rather than adapting after a few minutes, his stomach had squeezed and lurched unpleasantly. Vincent spent several minutes trying to force himself not to retch, but to no avail. In the end, he gave in and vomited what he’d eaten into the bushes. Maybe Yuffie was right and he really was a vampire, his inability to stomach mortal food proof that he was one of the walking dead.

After that he let Galian hunt and eat when the others gathered for meals. For some reason the beast had no trouble digesting the corpses of the creatures he killed. It was harder to do this when they reached a town. Vincent would have to eat with everyone else at the restaurant, and Tifa would scold him for pushing his food around his plate. A handful of times he had given in and eaten. Each time, it had ended badly.

Strangely enough, his body didn’t seem to have as much of a problem with liquids. He could handle water, alcohol, coffee, tea and a variety of other beverages. He quickly learned to order soup if unable to escape a dining experience. Tifa and Barret had tried to get him to eat more, insisted he was too thin. Vincent had done his best to ignore them.

After Meteor Fall, after the Remnants, after Deepground had come Veld. Dear old Veld who loved to cook. Vincent had never been a cook, nor had his father. His mother had died when he was barely into his teens, and with her had gone the tastes and smells of his childhood. Vincent had tried once or twice to prepare food for himself, but anything beyond canned soup and sandwiches tended to end in disaster. He learned to treat food as fuel, and didn’t eat if he wasn’t hungry. It felt as if he hadn’t been hungry for a long, long time.

Veld’s food made him hungry, which was a problem unto itself. Their time as partners and roommates had been the only other time in his life Vincent had eaten well. He’d never been what anyone would call bulky, but he’d had decidedly more meat on his bones in the old snapshots and company photos from his days as a Turk. Veld seemed to be on a personal mission to fatten him up, and though the smells were tantalizing, the tastes dazzling, and Veld’s smile a thing of beauty, Vincent wanted to cry every time Veld ventured into the kitchen.

It wasn’t easy to hide the fact that he could not stomach anything that Veld prepared. Oh he had decent luck with soups and some of the simpler stews, but anything more advanced and his body rejected it outright. It didn’t matter how long he chewed, how much water or wine he drank to wash it down, the meal always came back to haunt him. There had been one memorable evening where he’d managed not to throw up, but the alternative had been just as bad. He’d spent most of the night in the bathroom, trying to be quiet.

Veld dismissed him when Vincent insisted he didn’t need to eat. So far as Vincent knew, his living-dead body did not require fuel to function, running as it was off the materia in his chest. How could he explain to Veld that he was killing him with kindness? That everything he made was so good it nearly brought him to tears, but was making him sick as a dog?

He couldn’t. So it went on, and Vincent wondered if Veld really had no idea, or if he was just trying to be polite? Both of them keeping silent in order to spare the other’s feelings. He had to admit it was a distinct possibility.

Veld made him a cake for his birthday. The house was full of Turks and friends and Vincent forgot himself and ate. Ate rather a lot. Although it had taken longer, after a couple of hours he felt decidedly ill. He found himself wishing everyone would just go home. Sheer force of will kept him from ruining the carpet. As Veld was ushering the last of the guests out the door, Vincent stumbled to the bathroom only just in time. He’d been so desperate he hadn’t bothered to lock the door. He didn’t even hear the knock on the door or the step on the tile as Veld stuck his head into the bathroom. Head in the trash can and seated on the throne, Vincent didn’t notice as the door closed just as softly behind him.

Finally able to breathe again, it took Vincent a minute to note the soft knock on the door. With trembling hands he pulled himself together, and emptied the trash can into the toilet. Standing straight almost sent him tumbling to the floor, but he gripped the edge of the sink with both hands.

“Vince?”

“I’m fine,” he rasped, knowing he’d never told a less convincing lie in his life. Oh gods what had ever possessed him to eat _cake?_

“Can I come in?”

Vincent did not reply, his stomach rumbling threateningly. Hot and cold prickles shivered through him and he swallowed hard as his stomach lurched, sending a surge of acid up his throat. It took him a minute to realize Veld had put an arm around him, that he’d gathered his hair back for him as he spit bile into the sink. Coughing and sputtering, Vincent leaned heavily on the counter, willing his insides to obey. It wasn’t working very well.

“Can you drink this?” Veld asked, offering a glass of water.

“Sometimes,” Vincent confessed, taking the glass and rinsing his mouth, but not swallowing. Putting the seat and lid down, Veld guided him over to sit on the toilet.

“Are you sick?” he asked. Vincent hung his head, unwilling to witness the hurt, the betrayal in Veld’s eyes.

“No,” he mumbled. “Yes? I…” He sighed heavily, laid his unscarred hand over Veld’s. “I...I told you I didn’t need to eat. The truth is I _can’t_ eat. I’ve tried. I can’t. I’m sorry, Veld. You’re an amazing cook and your food is delicious but…” he trailed off, daring to look up. Veld did indeed look hurt, but the expression had a different slant to it than what he’d been expecting.

“All this time you’ve been getting sick?”

“It’s not usually this bad,” Vincent hedged, still feeling queasy. “I just...I’m not good with solid food for some reason.”

For a long and uncomfortable moment, Veld just looked at him. Guiltily, Vincent lowered his gaze to study his lap. Strong arms- one metal, one flesh- circled him and pulled him close in a hug.

“Think you could handle a cup of tea?”

Vincent managed a smile. “Yeah.”

When he got up the next morning, and stumbled into the kitchen still in his pajamas, Veld had set two places at the table, two mugs of coffee waiting, but Vincent’s plate was notably absent. Groggily blessing the gods that he would not have to choke down bacon and eggs, Vincent sank into his chair and submerged himself in the coffee.

“So...liquids are okay?” Veld asked, fussing with the blender.

“Mmm…” Vincent replied, not yet properly caffeinated for real words. “Coffee, tea, anything in a glass. Some soup is okay too.”

“Okay,” Veld said, setting a tall glass of something in front of him. It reminded Vincent of a milkshake, but runnier. “Think you could do a smoothie? You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I promise no more force-feeding, but even you can’t run on nothing.”

“I’ll give it a try.”

“Don’t force it.”

“I won’t.”

Sitting down to his own breakfast, Veld smiled.


End file.
